


Shards

by skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Ficlet Collection, Headcanon, Snippets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 12,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of Dragon Age writings that are too short to post on their own: snippets/ficlets/vignettes/banter and headcanonish things. Most (all?) have been posted on Tumblr at some point. Some of them are really just fragments, others are almost self-contained stories, but they’re all short. Some of them have actually turned into full-length stories (e.g. Josephine’s Weapon) and some may still turn into stories eventually, or be incorporated into stories. </p><p>I will keep adding to them as I write them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shards

“Truth is like light,” said Byron to the young Cassandra, who was wild and eager and understood only what she wished to. “It can be beautiful, and it can be terrible. It can reveal, and it can blind.”

“But when we follow truth it is the Maker’s light we stand in,” she replied confidently. “We shine light on the shadows of corruption; we bring justice.”

“Do we?” he said. “Truth does not necessarily provide justice for everyone; it can do great harm as well as great good. Truth does not always show the Maker’s mercy.”

Cassandra frowned, and said nothing. She was not certain she understood him. The opposite of truth was a lie; why should a lie require the Maker’s mercy? But she loved her mentor and respected him deeply, so she could not simply dismiss what he said. 

He looked at her expression and smiled. “The sword of truth shatters falsehood,” he said, “and sometimes more. When you break something, the shards go everywhere, as does the light from a faceted jewel, and you cannot always control where they fall.”

Years later, at a trader’s stall, the flash of light from small crystal pendants cut from clear gems catches her eye. Cassandra loves the beauty of jewelry, but it is part of the harness her uncle tried to put on her, and she does not wear it.

But she remembers Byron’s words.

Hanging from her sleeves, the pendants still catch the eye, and more than one enemy has fallen with a tiny flash in their eyes; truth can also be a distraction. The facets catch the light and send shards across the world. And now she understands that all she can do is try to mend the things that are broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was intrigued by the pendants hanging on Cassandra’s sleeves. I believe she likes to look good, and knows it when she does, but I figured something as fragile and unlikely as these crystals must be meaningful to her in some way.


	2. Krem's hands

When Krem was young, he hated his hands: they were not his. Since then he has used them in so many ways; to work, to build, to destroy, to hate, to love. They are hard and calloused and strong. There are scars from the skirmish he fought when the new recruit joined the Bull’s Chargers and proved such a fool that he died almost immediately, and almost took the others with him. There are scars from the bottle that broke when he fell over a bench, blind-drunk with happiness, because someone, he has no idea who or how, though he suspects, had decided that he should have a day that was not a birthday and yet was everything a birthday should have been and never was, and arranged a party. There is a very small scar on one knuckle from a belt buckle—someone else’s belt buckle—when both were too eager to be careful. Krem’s hands are hard and calloused and strong and scarred with his life. 

Now Krem loves his hands.


	3. Cassandra sleeps

Cassandra wears a shirt and leggings to bed if it is very cold, which is rare because of the heat of the forges in the armoury below. Otherwise she sleeps naked under the blankets in her loft, drowsily lulled by the incessant sound of hammers on metal. She sleeps naked because it is more practical: a nightshirt is an unnecessary extravagance, and would billow dangerously and hamper one in a fight. Should she need to respond to danger in the middle of the night, less time will be required to dress and don her armour. 

And in a pinch, the sight of a naked warrior with sword and shield would likely startle her enemies, giving her an edge. 

Cassandra sleeps alone, but for the cats. The armourers encourage them, to keep the mice and rats from the leather, and they prowl here and there, changing places sometimes with the cats in the granary and stables. At night they curl up tight against her, tucked against her belly, spilling over her legs, soft weights that hamper her but flow away if she moves suddenly. The kittens, short of attention and frivolous, occasionally attack her toes or her hair.

Cassandra sleeps to the incessant sound of hammers on metal and rumbling purrs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out of the writing of _No, No, and No_. The illustration is [here on Tumblr](http://skyboneharper.tumblr.com/post/114951568839/cassandra-sleeps).


	4. Josephine's Weapon

Josephine’s weapon is tea.

Oh, for the nobility and diplomats, it is more likely to be a fine wine or an aged brandy, something edged and deadly. But for her friends—or those with whom she wishes to be friends—it is tea.

She learns their weaknesses, and exploits them. 

Josephine is an expert on tea, a connoisseur, understanding its nuances and applications. She knows that some teas are remedies in senses other than a healer would use them, that some are armaments that can close a wound as well as open it. She prowls the stalls of the traders, looking for both the common and the unusual, and as the roads become safer she finds a wider range, some fearsomely exotic and strange. 

One would think that Solas, who hates tea, would be the hardest challenge, but it is not so. That place falls to Leliana, who is secretive about so many things, even when there is no need for it. And so Josephine, who has found the spymaster fascinating since they first met in Val Royeaux, takes on the quest; she will discover which tea Leliana prefers—or, perhaps, which tea prefers Leliana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned into the full length story of the same name. Here's the [illustration](http://skyboneharper.tumblr.com/post/115213195859/josephines-weapon).


	5. Cassandra's Possessions

Cassandra cares little for possessions, so the few things she keeps above the armoury are sufficient. A table and chairs, a carpet. Some bottles to share with a friend or a good book. A bedroll. A small side table for her books. The little practical clothing she owns. Her armour, her weapons. A few small items with personal meaning to her. She does not need more. During her vigil she was stripped down, and rebuilt; many things were discarded then, and she feels no need to look for them.

Josephine keeps a few items of clothing for her in a wardrobe, for special occasions; the Inquisition dress uniform, for example. (There are, of course, no dresses.) It is useless to try to keep such things clean and unwrinkled in her own quarters. But they always seem false to her. This is not who she is. 

Most of her possessions are practical, and although she appreciates their function, they mean little to her. But Cassandra cares a great deal about her armour and her weapons, and takes very good care of them. She is not immune to the beauty of their form, the delicacy of details, the clarity and elegance of design, though she appreciates this mostly as a facet of their quality and the skill with which they are made. They are most beautiful to her because they are strong and serviceable, the embodiment of her duty and commitment, the manifestation of the extension of her reach as the Right Hand.

That their beauty is an extension of her reach in other ways is something she has never understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it interesting that Cassandra sleeps in the armoury and clearly owns so little. I have quite a bit more to write on this, but for now this is a start.


	6. Sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _In_ all is to be dared _I wrote a scene where Cassandra snatched a book at random as an excuse for being in the library with the Inquisitor, only to find it was a treatise on breeding sheep._
> 
> _ms_cherryred said: “I’m imagining an awkward conversation later in which Josie asks about Cassandra’s fascination with sheep."_
> 
> _Well… I couldn’t leave THAT alone. And I do love Josephine’s practical approach to things._

Josephine: ( _casual interjection, over tea_ ): I was thinking that although the Berrichon are of excellent quality, Dorper might be a better choice overall. What do you think?

Cassandra: …

Josephine: They are a little more adaptable, after all.

Cassandra: …

Josephine: And—

Cassandra: Josephine, what are you talking about?

Josephine: …

Josephine: Sheep!

Cassandra: …

Cassandra: Why?

Josephine: You are the one who likes sheep, Cassandra. I was simply making conversation.

Cassandra: I do not like sheep!

Josephine: You do not have to be embarrassed about it. Many people like them. More than you might think. I am quite fond of sheep myself.

Cassandra: …

Josephine: What do you have against sheep?

Cassandra: Nothing! I know nothing about them!

Josephine: People think they are stupid, but they have many good qualities.

Cassandra: …

Josephine: They are very gentle and affectionate.

Cassandra: I… am sure they are.

Josephine: I think that many people overlook them because they seem meek, not large and fierce like druffalo. But druffalo are just as stupid!

Cassandra: …

Cassandra: I am thankful that they are not fierce.

Josephine: I cannot see that they would have any military use, however.

Cassandra: Military?

Josephine: If that was what you were thinking.

Cassandra: I—I—

Josephine: Although perhaps if we conscripted herders with well trained dogs, we might make use of them as decoys…

Cassandra: …

Josephine: ( _with finality_ ) No, it would be unkind to the sheep.

Cassandra: …

Cassandra: Josephine, I have not been planning any military actions involving sheep.

Josephine: Then why—

Josephine: ( _light dawning_ ) Ah! It was for the Inquisitor!

Cassandra: What?

Josephine: I understand perfectly. You wanted sheep for the Inquisitor. It is a very kind thought.

Cassandra: The Inquisitor does not like sheep!

Josephine: Are you certain?

Cassandra: …

Cassandra: Not exactly.

Josephine: They can be very profitable, especially when rented out to smallholders.

Cassandra: …


	7. Collecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I asked a question on Tumblr about hunting, and in replying lecriteuse said: “if your Inquisitor is already running around grabbing every damn elfroot in Thedas, it's not too far a stretch that someone in the party might be grabbing edibles for when they set up camp.” So: companion attitudes to collecting herbs._

Someone: The Inquisitor’s collecting rock samples again. We might as well look for something EDIBLE while she does.

Blackwall: The Wardens harvest this plant for stews, the roots are very hearty and even have a little taste, provided you add salt. I have a good supply of salt.

Cole: Druffalo eat these too. Are people like druffalo?

Vivienne: Darling, you might consider using this herb; in quantity it will likely kill you, but in moderation the piquancy is divine. It was all the rage in Orlais two years ago.

Solas: The ancient elves used every part of this plant. ( _explains all uses, which include everything except food, in great detail—for the better part of an hour_ )

Dorian: Be sure to wash them before you use them; something might have peed on them. ( _innocently blinks_ )

Varric: There’s a reason there are markets, you know. ( _sighs_ ) As long as it’s not nug or deep mushroom.

Bull: Just shoot a fuckin’ ram already.

Sera: Oh for fuck’s sake. ( _shoots ram_ )

Cassandra: [disgusted noise]


	8. Scout Harding's Secret

Scout Harding likes to dance. This is not a secret; everyone knows. There is a running joke at Skyhold about the notice she has posted, asking people to sign up for lessons; the lessons never happen, because Scout Harding has always been sent to the Western Approaches, or the Emerald Groves, or Emprise de Lion. (Some people have signed up as a joke, she is sure, because they know that they will never actually have to dance. She hopes fervently that she succeeds in running the lessons sometime, just for payback.)

It is a mark of the Inquisitor's respect for her skills that she is so often sent to difficult places, but sometimes she wishes that she was not quite so good at her job, or that the Inquisition would send someone else in her place, so that she could hold the damned lessons and gather a like-minded group of people, and then hold dances from time to time in the tavern. Oh, the nobles have their balls, certainly, but those are not for people like Lace Harding.

Scout Harding's secret is that she _does_ dance.

She dances under the full moon over the Western Approach; she dances under the light of stars on the snow in Emprise. She is a little dubious about dancing on the Storm Coast, where it is always raining, but really, everyone is already wet, so why worry?

She dances alone.

The music plays in her mind, and she dances the set steps of the country line dances that she has danced since she was a child. The footwork is sometimes complex, but she is quick and light on her feet, and dances well.

She dances the pair dances; these are more difficult without a partner, but they too have a set form, and so she gestures and sets her hand just so, and everything works out.

The formal dances, the "fancy dances" of the nobles are harder. But she has a quick mind and an excellent memory, and has stood guard duty at balls often enough to pick up some of the simpler ones. She has diffidently asked Josephine about some of the more complicated ones, and the Ambassador, who is both perceptive and discreet, has shown her some of the steps and said nothing whatsoever to anyone else about doing so.

And out in the wilds, every night if she can, she dances, and no one knows.

No one is supposed to know, at least. So it comes as a heart-stopping shock, late one night, when a deep voice says from the darkness, "Mmph... fancy footwork. Could be useful for training."

She trips over her own feet and stumbles, and the enormous dim shape in the shadows says, "Qunari don't dance. But maybe we should rethink that."

She stands gaping at the Iron Bull, knowing she has turned red from head to foot, wordless with embarrassment. They stare at each other for a long moment. And then Bull says, "Will you teach me?" and she is wordless again. "I—have reasons for wanting to know how."

It is hard to tell under moonlight, and she is not familiar enough with Qunari complexions to be sure, but she thinks his skin has darkened. And then she thinks to other things she has noticed, small interests and affections for someone who certainly _can_ dance, and well.

"Yes," she says. "Of course. I don't know all of the dances, but I can teach you quite a few. Mostly country dances, but you don't want to know those. Formal dances, that's what you'll want. They're—" Stop babbling, she thinks to herself, and swallows. "I can teach you," she says. "Some of them."

And she does. It is difficult in some ways, because they are so different in size that they cannot dance as closely as would be normal for some of these dances. But she explains to him how one would hold a partner who is closer in size, and they can touch hands and lead and follow that way. He is a quick learner, and agile for all his bulk, and he understands the moves quickly.

It becomes a ritual, when they are together on expedition; they find a way to steal a little distance away from the camp and practice.

One night, the first night on an expedition after they have not travelled together for some time, he seems especially exuberant; he dances a particularly complex dance effortlessly and gracefully, and towards the end, to her shock, he sweeps her off her feet, laughing, and swings her round for a few steps. Then he sets her down and bows. Or at least she thinks it is probably a bow, or the Qunari equivalent; it is a complex movement that she has never seen him make before. "Thank you," he says. "I have made my debut recently, and thanks to your teaching it was... entirely successful. Thank you."

And she thinks to certain rumours she has heard relating to the ball at the Winter Palace, and grins. She is a romantic, and has a soft spot for Bull. "You are very welcome," she says. "I think you have learned everything I can teach you."

"But I hope," says Bull, "that we may continue to practice together. At least, as long as you have no other partner to dance with. I find that I enjoy it."

And Lace Harding, who has recently developed some hopes of her own with regard to an individual who shows no interest in dancing—yet—is happy to agree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set myself the task of writing 4 snippets as part of what I did for Hippo's Creativity Challenge, and this was the last one I wrote. I started to write it simply as Harding secretly dancing alone—and then all of a sudden in my mind she wasn't alone. 
> 
> There's a drawing to go with this, attached to the [Tumblr post](http://skyboneharper.tumblr.com/post/120134828894/scout-hardings-secret).


	9. The Thunderhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Cassandra/Trev headcanonish snippet.

Cassandra often has a thunderous expression. This is how the Inquisitor thinks of it, and she suspects others do as well. But it is not actually angry, though many might see it that way, and flinch.

Trev does not flinch.

It is a lowering frown, a signal of focus, of attention, whether the target is something in the world or something in her mind. It is a sign that Cassandra is thinking.

It is thunderous in that there is a sense of impending action. It is thunderous in that there is a sense that lightning may strike; but it is not necessarily dangerous, it is not necessarily the lightning of destruction. Sometimes it is lightning that illuminates dark places, that enfolds, that sustains, that creates. Cassandra moves through the world like a thunderhead, full of potential, rising taller and taller, shifting and boiling, softness enveloping and hard light piercing. Taller than mountains, taller than the sky, dark and sunshot all at once.

Loving Cassandra is like loving a storm.

When Cassandra is angry her expression changes and goes well beyond thunderous, and the difference is very clear to Trev, who knows her so well. The Inquisitor has danced with the thunder, and the lightning, and felt the flesh stripped from her bones, and been reborn; there is no anger in the storm's song, though there may be tears.

When the Inquisitor is angry her fury burns like the coals of a slow fire left unattended, and the unwary may not notice. If it is not fed, the fire may seem to die back and disappear, but it can rise again from hidden peat below, can spark to tinder and often does, sullen and resistent and then harsh flames spat out to sear all they touch. Trev works hard to keep it banked, to channel it with the purpose of a forge, for she knows the damage it can do, and that it does not deal the clean strikes of lightning.

When Cassandra is truly angry she is frightening, coiled with the tension of a wolf leashed with the lightest twine. When Cassandra is truly angry she steps with the tightly controlled, elegant movements of a predator, all white teeth and yellow eyes and the coppery smell of hot blood.

But Cassandra is helpless against the Inquisitor, because her anger cannot strike with words, and Trev can. And Trev is helpless against Cassandra, because she knows it. And so it has taken a long time for them to learn how to be angry with each other.

It has taken a long time to know the difference between the thunderhead and the wolf, between the clean white flame of a forge and the red devouring flame of a smouldering fire gone to conflagration. It has taken a long time to know how to stand in the storm and laugh as rain or tears slide over your skin; to know how to stand in the glare of a yellow eye or a red flame and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling blocked and asked for a prompt, and nameinvain threw me "thunderhead" and thievinghippo threw me "tears," and this is what came into my head. And it ties directly in to a sketchy story idea I already had, so yes, I do believe there's a full length story in this, though it may take me a little while to get to it. And I think writing this may have unlocked some blocks. So thank you, thank you those were wonderful prompts! Now I'm going to see if I can figure out how to work the story I've been stuck on.


	10. Chapped lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weather sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For nameinvain, who gave me a whole list of prompts. With luck I’ll eventually work through quite a few of them.

The weather is hard on all of them. When it is as wet as it is on the Storm Coast, when the rain is constant and you never, ever get completely dry and on top of that salt spray coats everything, including you, callouses will soften, and folds and cracks in your hands and feet will split and never heal. They carry oils and creams with them and tend their hands and feet every night, along with their boots and armour leathers, with as much attention as an Orlesian lady preparing for a seduction. There is a fine balance in this; the application of too much salve can soften callouses too much, and that causes other problems, but it’s better than the alternative: hands raw and bleeding, foot infections that cannot be shaken.

In the desert sun of the Hissing Wastes and the Western Approach their skin burns and peels. In the desert it is hot and in Emprise it is cold, but the problem is the same: the air is dry. Sinuses react, causing everything from headaches to nosebleeds, as if they didn’t have enough blood to deal with already. Lips are chapped, splitting and sore; there is a beeswax balm that helps but does not entirely solve the problem.

Vivienne is the most methodical in her approach to these challenges, determined not to allow the elements to inconvenience her or create flaws in her appearance, and she spends a great deal of time in camp applying creams and salves, both as curatives and preventatives. The others do not share her single-minded fixation and willingness to devote so much time to it, being primarily concerned with health and comfort, and are consequently not as successful in their efforts.

Bull has a Qunari balm he swears by, and it does seem to mostly work, but whatever it is made of gives it—and him—such a smell that he has been unable to convince anyone else to use it, and they are all grateful that most of the time spent with him is in the open air. Luckily the odor wears off before the balm’s protection does, and it is only bad for the first few hours in the morning. Bull simply laughs at the Companions’ derogatory comments and points out that he is clearly more comfortable than anyone other than Madame de Fer.

(Dorian has had a great deal to say about this balm, and it is astonishing, given the eloquence of his remarks, how often he too seems to smell of the stuff.)

The rest of them try a range of solutions to these problems, everything from herbal creams prescribed by the surgeon to folk remedies shared among their various peoples. None are entirely successful, but they share the recipes and recommendations and oils and creams; the exchanges and discussions provide a great deal of entertainment in the evenings in camp.

And the Inquisitor notices that when plants are known to have beneficial effects with regard to skin care, there is significantly more interest on the part of her companions for gathering them.

Sometimes she thinks that it’s a wonder that any of them have partnered up at all, given the state of their skin; how likely is it that anyone would want to kiss chapped and bleeding lips, be touched by wounded, peeling hands, share a bedroll with cold, soggy, battered feet? Certainly she sometimes feels that no one, certainly no specific _someone_ , could possibly want such a wreck as herself, even if they were not already disinclined towards women.

But then on an evening after a day with one close call too many, a very close call that left her bruised and all of them badly shaken, she has gone a little ways from camp to a lookout to watch the sun set. And then all unexpectedly there are hands catching her leathers to pull her round, and Cassandra’s chapped lips come down on hers, clumsy with fear and need and sweet with the memory of honey, and her breath catches and the part of her mind that is still functioning realizes that perhaps it is not so unlikely after all.


	11. This is not armour.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone tries on new armour. (If one uses the word loosely.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to the release of the Spoils of the Qunari content pack, and in particular seeing what the Antaam-Saar Armor looked like on the companions, as seen [here](http://themommyinquisitor.tumblr.com/post/123449358889/spoils-of-the-qunari-antaam-saar-armor-all).

When the intercepted shipment of Qunari armor arrived in Skyhold, an assortment ended up spread out over tables in the Herald’s Rest, and there was a great deal of hilarity in response to its styling. The companions, curious, came to investigate. Some even tried the armour on, to cheers from onlookers.

Bull was the least interested and didn’t bother. “Been there, done that,” he said. “Though the cut of some of the better made stuff does make me feel like a new man.”

Varric showed off surprisingly well; who knew what lurked below all that chest hair? No hair at all, evidently. Perhaps he shaved. 

Dorian looked the closest to himself, perhaps. Well, that was to be expected. Cole also showed well; there were unexpected muscles under that sloppy shirt. He examined the fastenings with interest and appeared to be investigating the possibility of turning the corded sleeves into some kind of cats-cradle.

Blackwall… well, there was a certain flurry of excited commentary amongst the female bystanders. Blackwall flushed and made a quick retreat back into his customary armour.

But Solas looked down at himself and shook his head sadly. “I do not believe this suits me,” he said. 

“My  _eyes_ ,” murmured Varric, not quite inaudibly. 

The women entirely refused to try the armour on. Sera took one look at it and started to laugh. “Are you friggin’ kidding me?” she howled. “Oo, let’s go play with swords and silk!”

Vivienne gave it a little more consideration. “It has potential,” she said, “but really, there is no imagination here. Either in the armour or the lack of it. It would take an expert to make something of this.” 

Cassandra took one look, scowled ferociously, and made a disgusted noise. “This is not  _armour_ ,” she said, and walked away.

“No, it is certainly not,” said the Inquisitor. But she was a few minutes slower in leaving the tavern, and carried a package when she did. 

Later, in the Inquisitor’s quarters, Trev pulled out one of the offending sets of armour and held it up. “I will if you will,” she said. 

Cassandra made another disgusted noise. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Frowning intimidatingly, she settled herself on the settee with a book, stubbornly ignoring the Inquisitor. 

But a few minutes later her concentration was disrupted by a shadow across the book, and she reluctantly raised her eyes from the page. 

Her eyes somehow stopped before reaching Trev’s face, and stayed where they were. Somewhere about stomach level, perhaps. And her face seemed pinker than usual. 

“What do you think?” said Trev, preening.

“It… may not be so terrible,” said Cassandra, swallowing, and reached for her.

It might not be armour, but it was evidently good for  _something_. 


	12. The Watcher

Morrigan dances through the skies of Skyhold keep, watching. She studies its inhabitants, as she has always studied those in the wide world, with curiosity and amusement and a faint sense of unease. She understands more about the world now, but people... she still does not entirely understand people.

She understands the tethering of love better, now. But Kieran is her only weakness, her only safety. And she is still not sure she understands the idea of _friendship_.

For the most part the inhabitants of Skyhold do not notice her, other than as the advisor from the Orlesian court; they are far too caught up in their own stories to wonder about hers. The exception is Leliana. Leliana is not confused by the number of ravens in the Rookery. And Leliana watches her.

Leliana observes with quiet, watchful attention, and Morrigan does not know if it is from some remnant of camaraderie or anger; their history makes both possible. Then they had circled each other like cats, not quite friends, not quite enemies. But Morrigan thinks that Leliana is a cat no longer; there is a stillness to her that is not feline.

At the Winter Palace, passing through the crush of nobles, Morrigan noticed Leliana's eyes on her dress. Once Leliana spoke of clothing her in red velvet and gold. But that was before the Archdemon fell, before Morrigan fled, leaving them all behind. But the witch knows that the Inquisition's spymaster remembers, both the dress and the betrayal.

Leliana watches Morrigan, and Morrigan watches Leliana, curious. Morrigan dances through the skies, and the dance winds closer and closer, into the open tower, and settles. Leliana has an odd habit, sometimes, of talking to the ravens as if they were friends. As if they could become friends. It is a strange thing, and disconcerting. Morrigan does not know how to understand it.

But she watches Leliana still. And sometimes now, late at night, Morrigan lands on a railing in the Rookery, and Leliana looks up and smiles. 


	13. The bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little things make a difference.

There was something on the stone paving in a corner of the yard, a small bit of fluff on a drift of snow. Cassandra, following the Inquisitor as she explored the barren, disintegrating mess that Solas had called Skyhold, barely noticed it; but then the fluff moved, and she looked more closely.

It was a small, nondescript bird, brown and speckled and altogether unremarkable.

Cassandra squatted down. The fluff twitched a little, panicked, but the bird was too weak to do much. She contemplated it. It did not seem to be injured; likely it was either starving or freezing.

They had very little; there was very little they had been able to take from Haven. There was nothing to spare.

But a bird, a tiny bird, would eat very little.

It was ridiculous to even consider. They had far too many things to worry about, serious things, disaster and death and destruction and the possible ending of the world they knew. Not small brown birds that would likely not survive another night.

She picked it up and tucked it into her breastplate, just above her heart, feeling the slightest movement of its wings against her for a moment. If the Inquisitor noticed, she said nothing.

They had managed to bring some grain for the horses. She took away a small handful, her expression daring anyone to stop her. She acquired, in ways it was best not to enquire too closely into, a chipped saucer for water melted from the snow. She found a small wooden box that was not airtight; it would do until something better could be made. A cage was more difficult, but there was a Dalish archer who was known for a hobby of working with wood and weaving things with willow branches, a man whose life she had once saved, and there was stunted willow in protected corners around the keep.  He promised something for her the next day. Later, in the space she had claimed in the warm loft over the armoury, she crushed a little of the grain into small pieces with the flat of her sword blade and then put it, with the saucer of water and the bird itself, into the box, and closed the lid. It would live, or it would not.

The archer fulfilled his promise. On the next day Cassandra carefully opened the box against the door of the rough cage he had made; the bird fluttered into it and then onto a perch. It looked at her with a bright, suspicious eye. It might live after all; this seemed far more likely than it had been the day before.

It might live.

It never sang, in all the time she kept it; but some months later when the first green had spread through the keep like a morning surprise, and she opened the cage and watched it fly free, a sudden burst of clear, trilling notes drifted back over the warm spring air to cheer her.


	14. Wintersend

Cassandra is meticulous in her care for her weapons, her armour. Every night on expedition she sits by the fire and cleans, and mends, and polishes. In the forefront of battle—and she is always in the vanguard—she gleams, she flashes, shining like a star. The Inquisitor watches, and if she must sometimes shut her eyes from the pain of the brilliance she is careful that no one sees.

And now the first Wintersend at Skyhold approaches. It is the custom to give gifts. The Inquisitor acquires small items for each of her advisors, her companions. But what gift can one possibly give such a person as Cassandra? She is immensely practical. She does not care for fripperies.

She could give the Seeker armour, give her weapons. But she often asks Harritt and Dagna to craft new and better gear from the materials they find on expedition, and gives them to her companions. There is nothing significant in that, nothing personal.

She could ask them to craft something especially for the Seeker, something beyond the practical, something truly unique and beautiful. But Cassandra already seems to react to gifts of fine armour or weapons with a degree of suspicion, having made it plain that she cannot return the Inquisitor’s affection. To show her regard so clearly would be uncomfortable for both of them.

And beyond the utilitarian, she keeps nothing, wants for nothing. She enjoys books, but the Inquisitor could not bear the teasing that would ensue if she asked Varric to write something again. There is still far too much pain around Cassandra’s refusal of her attentions, even though it occurred quite some time ago. In truth, she doubts she will ever be free of it.

A conversation overheard by chance gives her an idea. In the end, in a shop in Val Royeaux, she finds what she has been looking for: a whetstone of the fabled Celestine Black. It comes in a small leather kit designed to be carried on a belt, with a simple silverite container for oil and a place for keeping a rag. It is not elegant—it is not expressive—but she knows that it is something the Seeker will accept.

And she does accept it, with the rare halfsmile that is a genuine expression of pleasure. The smile catches on the edge of the Inquisitor’s armour and hangs there through the rest of the day, a warmth that pains and comforts in equal part.

It is practical. It is appropriate. And it does not say too much. There is no reason for Cassandra to know that it carries the weight of a breaking heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the angst of unrequited love, but I don't do sad endings. So you should assume that this is just a moment in time from one of my stories with a happy ending.


	15. The Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine, Cassandra, and a snake.

Josephine: AAAAAAAAAAGAGAGAAAAGGGHHHHHH!  
_(Enter Cassandra, sword drawn, looking wildly about.)_  
J: _(points wordlessly)_  
C: _(investigating)_ … It’s a snake.  
J: I KNOW it’s a snake. That is the PROBLEM.  
C: It’s a very small snake.  
J: It is THREE FEET LONG.  
C: But—  
J: KILL IT  
C: Josephine, you are usually less bloodthirsty.  
J: KILL IT  
C: But Josephine, it is harmless. It is not venomous, and it is far too small to squeeze you to death.  
J: KILL IT OR I WILL KILL YOU  
C: _(sighs)_  
C: I rather like snakes, actually. They are very efficient at what they do.  
J: CASSANDRA  
C: _(delicately slides sword under snake and hoists in in loops)_  
C: Could you open the door so I can take it through your rooms—  
J: NO I WILL NOT  
C: But—  
J: KILL IT  
C: All right, all right.  
C: _(complicated move that appears to toss the snake over the balcony railing but doesn’t)_  
C: There.  
J: Thank you!  
C: _(strange expression)_  
J: _(murmuring and leaning forward)_ My love…  
C: _(evading)_ I—I need to see the Inquisitor about something. Immediately.  
J: _(bewildered)_ Cassandra?  
C: Just give my a moment, my heart—  
C: _(bolts for the door)_  
C: _(runs down three flights of stairs at top speed)_  
C: _(dives into dark corner of yard and yanks off breastplate)_  
Snake: _(uncoils from breastplate and slithers away)_  
C: _(to self)_ That was a little too close for both of us, snake.  
J: _(behind her)_ YES. IT WAS.  
C: _(panic)_  
J: _(glares)_  
C: _(sweating)_  
J: _(relents and kisses her)_  
J: Thank you, my hero.  
C: _(relaxes)_  
J: But if you EVER try something like that again, I will arrange to have every visitor to Skyhold ask you about your experiences as the Hero of Orlais.  
C: AAAAAAAAAAGAGAGAAAAGGGHHHHHH!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this tucked away in a folder somewhere. Don't know why I never posted it, but better late than never!


	16. I'm sorry, but I can't trust you anymore.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble in response to the prompt "I'm sorry, but I can't trust you any more."

“I’m sorry, but I can’t trust you anymore.”

Trev’s eyes shut. “I’ve said I was sorry. And I am.”

“It is not enough.” Cassandra’s glare could burn holes in silverite.

“Please.”

“No.”

“I get… urges. And then I can’t stop myself from taking my pleasure.”

“And how,” said Cassandra bitterly, “should this make me feel, that I am less to you than a moment’s delight?”

Trev looked guilty but still slightly defiant.

“It was a PUN,” said Cassandra. “You are incorrigible.”

“Well,” said Trev reasonably, “you could stop my mouth.”

“I suppose I shall have to,” said Cassandra.

And did.


	17. She stared into the mirror.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble based on the prompt "she stared into the mirror."

She stared into the mirror. Her image stared back, and more; the fire’s glow, the candle flames guttering, faint light catching shadows on curves tangled in linen sheets, still sweat-sheened, now careless and lax in sleep.

She rarely bothered with a mirror, never quite trusting them; they showed too much and not enough. Her pride asserted that such things were not necessary. Her hair was short and required little attention. She could apply her kohl accurately with her eyes closed, and did so.

But a mirror that showed a life you had never dreamed of—now that was magic indeed.


	18. The ties that bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine and Cassandra, standing against the darkness.

It was hard, being separated as often as they were, Josephine tucked immovably into her office in Skyhold and Cassandra roaming far and wide with the Inquisitor. There were weeks, months sometimes, where they did not see each other. It was all very well, Josephine thought, to say that absence made the heart grow fonder, but that was nonsense. Absence made the heart _ache_. The joy of having a lover return was a delight, but did not negate the reality of days spent in longing and worry and pain. 

It was even harder, knowing that the Seeker could fall in battle, and she would not know, not until a raven came. Sometimes she saw them fly, gliding into the dark windows of the tower, and shivered, and tried not to think of what it might mean. Too often the ravens carried word of those who fell; she was not alone in her fear, her sorrow. She was fortunate that so far, the worst had not happened, as it had for so many. She thanked the Maker, and felt guilty for her luck. 

There was a subtle comradeship within the Inquisition, which seemed to fight such a hopeless battle, between those whose lovers survived, and those whose lovers fell; they could easily have fallen into the camps of the unlucky and those who were afraid that bad fortune was contagious, but for the most part they did not. It could be any of them who lost those they loved, and they knew it, and stood by each other. The Inquisitor wrote to the families of the fallen, but Josephine wrote letters for those who could not, and needed to speak, the lucky and unlucky, and told their stories. So many stories, so different and so much the same, bound by the ties of love.

Sometimes it seemed too hard, too frightening. _She could die as so many others have done_ , Josephine thought. _She could die, and how could you bear it? It is too much_.

But then Cassandra would return with the others, work done for a little while, and as they rode in Josephine would greet them as the Inquisition’s Ambassador should, with dignity and propriety. But even then there would be a chance to touch fingers together, promise of a better welcome to come. And late in the evening there would be a tap at her door, and Cassandra’s half smile, worried and questioning and tremulously content, and she felt the tug of what lay between them, and would hold the door and say, _Oh my dearest, you have come home to me again_. 

And Cassandra would say, _Always_ , and smile properly, her happiness rising like the sun on a misty morning, breaking through all.

It was true; if she lived she would always return, and Josephine knew it with a surety that transcended all other fears. Life could not be harnessed and put to work, making the world immutable and safe. But as long as they had breath, they could love, and stand against the darkness, and they would not stand alone, but with all the others who lived and loved and returned to each other or did not.

 _It is hard_ , she thought. _But that is love. And I would not change it for anything_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on the day after the Orlando massacre. Thanks to [lecriteuse](http://lecriteuse.tumblr.com/) for the prompt for this. I think that on such a day, the best thing to do is to shout as loudly as possible: We are here. We aren’t going anywhere. We will love.


	19. Breeches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera and Isabela, with things going as might be expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally posted on imzy's Dragon Age Femslash community, and was based on a prompt there from Solitae: Isabela/Sera, trousers or lack thereof.

Gather round, my friends, and I'll tell you a tale guaranteed to make your hair curl.

Now this is a story from the days of the Inquisition. I knew them personally: the Inquisitor, the Seeker, the Iron Bull, all of them. But I knew the Champion and her friends too. And this story is about what happened when one met the other.

Not the Inquisitor and the Champion. Of course they met, everyone knows that. It's in my book. And if you haven't got it, I'd be happy to sell you a copy, for a very reasonable price.

But this story isn't in the book. No. This tale is about what happened when Sera met Isabela, sometime after Corypheus fell.

Well, not everything. Some things are better left unspoken, if you don't want to get your friends into shit, and I don't.

Breeches were kind of Sera's thing. The first time the Inquisitor met her, it was when the rogue lured her to fight a bunch of half-assed soldiers defending a real piece of shit noble. And I say half-assed deliberately: she'd stolen all their breeches. I never knew there was a market for such things, but that didn't stop Sera.

From time to time she'd steal breeches from someone in the Inquisition, just for fun, hang them up with banners somewhere. Used to steal Cullen's quite a lot, and hang them on one of the banner rails with big gilt balls on the end. She never stole from Cassandra, though; said it wouldn't be fair.

Isabela had a thing for breeches too. Or more accurately, the absence of breeches. That woman could never be convinced to wear them. Slowed her down too much, she said. Make of that what you will. Hawke certainly did.

So there you are: two rogues with a thing for breeches. It was bound to be a recipe for disaster. Or something.

After the Inquisition shut down Sera went back to Denerim for a while, doing things for the Red Jennies. Eventually she decided to travel a bit—there are Jennies everywhere, after all—and ended up in Kirkwall for a bit. Isabela'd been sailing up north, but came down for a bit to visit old friends. They both knew me, and that was how they got to know each other.

Isabela never liked Bran. Called him a pompous stick in the mud. Called him more than that, to be honest. And Bran certainly didn't like Isabela. So at that point there they were, Bran was being his usual annoying ass-ish self, and stopping her from running all around Viscount's Keep the way she wanted to. Thought she would pervert the inhabitants, I suppose. Or maybe he just wanted to be a dick. Whatever the reason, he'd been giving her a bad time. And drinking down at the Hanged Man one night—the new one built after the city fell—she and Sera got to plotting. The beer is just as bad as it ever was, but it's a little stronger since the trade routes got better, and they were well on their way to operating at half-mast by the time I left that night.

Yes, of course I still drink at the Hanged Man. Only place that'll put this kind of hair on your chest and keep it there.

Now the thing you need to know about Bran is that he's vain. Vain and arrogant as all get out, and lets those he considers his inferiors know it. He didn't like Hawke, he didn't like Hawke's friends. Hell, he didn't like me. But I guess he didn't like being Viscount even more. We get along, mostly. I threaten to write things about him, that keeps him in line. But he's stuffier about protocol than anyone you're ever likely to meet, and Isabela hates that.

So Isabela didn't like Bran. Sera didn't much like Aveline. But Isabela and Aveline were friends, in an odd kind of way; they'd known and trusted each other for too long not to be. Still liked to prod each other, of course. But each of them would go to the wall for the other without question or hesitation, though they'd have something to say about it afterwards. But Sera didn't have that history, and she thought Aveline was even stuffier than Cassandra. Which might be true, come to think of it.

They might have decided to prank Aveline, and Isabela told me afterwards that they seriously considered it. She thought it would be interesting to see what colour the Guard-Captain would go if the Guard turned out to morning inspection with their breeches missing. But it was easier to agree on what they could do to Bran, so that was where they turned their attention.

As it happened, Orlais was sending an ambassador to negotiate some trade issues with Kirkwall. They sent a fancy high-ranking noble who didn't have a lot of brains, though he did have a good staff; a fop who was more concerned with fashion than felandris. It was important, said Bran, that we make a good impression. So there was a ball arranged in honour of the ambassador.

Now the thing about Bran is that he's predictable. If there's an important event happening, he primps for it. He says one must show respect for others on important occasions, but I think he just likes spoiling himself. And spoil himself he does, with a bath and perfumed soaps and lotions, and his best clothing all fresh and clean. And he leaves it till the last minute, he does, going straight from bath into clothes and then down into the hall. Takes some chances with timing, for someone so concerned with protocol.

But this time someone got at the clothing while he was bathing. So when he got out of the tub and dried himself off the breeches he'd laid out were gone. And so were all the breeches he owned, which I must say there are a great many of. All missing, courtesy of Sera and Isabela.

But what they didn't take into consideration was Bran's arrogance, and his vanity. Remember that arrogance and vanity I mentioned? You'd think it would have stopped him in his tracks, but no. No clothes? No problem.

That man dressed the top half of himself as impressively as ever and then took one of his gold satin sheets and wound it round himself and over his shoulder, and fastened it with a diamond clasp and a very fine belt, and walked out into the grand hall as if there was nothing out of the ordinary.

You could tell the Orlesian ambassador didn't know what to think. He didn't want to seem ignorant, so he pretended there was nothing unusual. And the two of them set the tone for everyone else. Bran swanned around that evening the centre of all attention; and I can't say I was sorry, as it took the focus away from me and I was able to settle into a good game of Wicked Grace.

The next year in Orlais draped fabrics were all the rage, for both men and women. There were comic songs written about what people wore under them. Sera said she got a peek, and Bran was as bare as a babe, but Sera would say that whether it was truth or a great gobsmack of overheated imagination. Isabela said it was true, but Hawke said the real truth was that she wouldn't know either.

Isabela and Sera couldn't figure out whether to be pleased or annoyed with the results of their prank, and it was pretty damned amusing watching them try to work it out.

But here's the funniest thing. Bran was so pleased with the effect he had that he decided that he really _was_ an instigator of fashion, and was determined to assert his artistic influence. He wanted the Guard to have new uniforms made with wrapped fabric like he had. He said it was wonderfully freeing, and not nearly as constricting as leggings, and here, try it, just keep them a bit shorter than I did in case you have to run, above the knee.

But that never went anywhere, because Aveline burned his sheets.


	20. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted on Imzy in response to hibernate's prompt: trapped together, Isabela/Aveline.

"I thought," said Aveline through her teeth, "that pirates had skills that helped in these kinds of situations."

There was a subtle shifting of the weight on her lap. "Why, Lady Man-hands, we _do_. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"You know what I mean, slattern!" Aveline gritted out.

Isabela heaved a loud, dramatic sigh, and soft, billowy flesh pressed against the Guard-Captain's cheek. "Of course. But you are so _unimaginative_." For some reason the flesh did not move away when Isabela exhaled. The pirate seemed to be leaning against her.

Lack of imagination was not, unfortunately, Aveline's problem. She was thankful for the darkness, because she knew that a blush had risen over her like a steaming wave. It did not help that the pirate, whose arm had been looped around her shoulders, had started idly fingering her ear. Half the heat in her body, she was sure, radiated out from her ears when she was embarrassed. Probably they were hot enough now to toast muffins on, and Isabela was sure to notice.

She should be thankful. There were worse places Isabela could have put her hand.

It was all ridiculous. Why had someone filled a storage room so full that there was not even enough room for two people to stand side by side comfortably, forcing at least one to perch on a box full of old breeches? Why was there only an eighth of an inch of candle in the wall sconce, and no spare? Why was the door so badly balanced as to have swung shut behind them, and why did it lock from the outside? Why did this room even have a door that locked, given that it appeared, based on what they had seen before the candle burned down, to contain nothing but junk? Why was a smuggler keeping junk?

And why on earth had she agreed to Isabela's plan? "I've gotten a lead on where Garza has been stashing the stuff he fences," she'd told them at the Hanged Man. "We can use my connections to track it down, big girl," she'd said, "and once we find it you can call in the Guard." Aveline knew perfectly well that Isabela used fences herself. Why would she help them go after Garza? It was obvious that there was some kind of hidden motivation behind her sudden helpfulness. She should have known that something would go wrong. "You can show them all you're someone who has an eye on everything. Someone who has reliable sources. You can seize it all. Well, almost all. If a little falls off the cart before the Guard gets there that's a fair trade, isn't it?"

And Aveline growled that nothing was going to fall off any carts on her watch, and Isabela had simply smiled and said that the Guard would have nothing to guard if they didn't do things her way in the first place.

And the hell of it was that she'd fallen for it. Garza, in particular, had been enraging the nobility, and seemed impervious to accusations. Garza was a thorn in the Viscount's side: everyone knew that he fenced the goods stolen from the mansions in Hightown and smuggled them out of the city, but no one had been able to stop him or even recover the stolen property. Even though she was the newly-made Guard-Captain, as a Fereldan she was not highly respected by the Kirkwall nobility, and considered a plodding fool by many; this was a chance to rub their bigotry in their faces.

It was not that they wouldn't get out of the storeroom; Hawke and Varric were searching other parts of the old warehouse, and would find them eventually, and Varric could pick a lock as well as Isabela could. But in the meantime...

"You'd be much more comfortable to sit on if your armour wasn't quite so _angular_ ," said Isabela.

"You could stand," said Aveline, thoroughly annoyed by the complaint. It was not as if the pirate was as light as a pillow; her weight was not exactly uncomfortable, but it was not something that could be ignored. Aveline was in fact very, very conscious of it. "Or sit on the floor."

"Don't be silly," said the pirate cheerfully. "Sit on a filthy floor when there's a warm lap? You're not exactly _soft_ , what with all the muscles, but then all those muscles are not... unattractive." Fingers insinuated themselves under the lames of her pauldron and squeezed Aveline's bicep. Aveline swallowed. "You know, you need to relax more," Isabela cooed. "It can't be good for you to be so rock hard all the time." The hand on Aveline's ear moved to the back of her neck and gently massaged the knotted muscles at the base of her skull.

Damn it, it felt good. "I thought rock hard was the only thing you liked, slattern," she said.

The hand paused, then resumed, fingers sliding under the edge of the gorget. "Only in a man, big girl, and I don't think you _quite_ fit that description. Women should have at least some soft bits. Do _you_ have any soft bits, Guard-Captain?"

Aveline found herself entirely without a clever retort. But fortunately for her, at that moment there was a faint scratching at the lock of the door. Isabela instantly shifted off her lap to the side of the door, and Aveline put her hand on her sword. But when the door opened moments later, it was only to Varric and Hawke. There was a certain amount of teasing that happened about the two of them being locked into a confined space, mostly targeting Aveline, but luckily there were more important things to attend to: the other pair had found the main stash of fenced goods. Aveline arranged for the Guard to take the warehouse under its control and conduct an inventory.

She suspected that a few small, valuable objects might have gone missing in the time that it took to call the Guard in, but this was something that mattered more in principle than in fact. This was a coup for her, and Bran had, in his supercilious way, indicated that the Viscount was pleased.

It was only much, much later, when she was lying in her bed, that she remembered what Isabela had said. Did she have any soft bits?

 _Damn_ the woman, anyway.


	21. we'll watch the waves as they roll there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagna and Harding, paying attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on imzy in response to a prompt from sunspot: Dagna/Lace Harding: "we'll watch the waves as they roll there."

The Arcanist was a pain in the ass, there were no two ways about it. Ridiculously cute, yes, but endlessly annoying. She never made much sense, and she was so unrelentingly cheerful that it set teeth on edge. She was vague and distracted and never where she was supposed to be. Like right now: she should have been in camp, but was she? No, she was not. Harding gritted her teeth, sent three scouts in three different directions, and took the fourth tangent herself.

There she was, doing something at the edge of a crevice in a cliff. Was the woman mad? Had she not been warned about the spiders lurking in these caves? Hell, she had _seen_ the spiders. Probably. Maybe she hadn't noticed the scouts fighting them. Probably was too busy poking at a vein of mineral in a rock wall, like she was doing now.

Harding gave the echoing, penetrating call that indicated something sought was found, and then the one calling someone to join you, heard a faint reply. The signal that she had found Dagna would be passed on, and someone would come. _Sheep calling turned out to be a useful skill after all_ , she thought, with grim amusement.

The Arcanist didn't even look up when she called. But she must have been aware to some degree, because when Harding got closer she said, "Hello! Look! I've never seen serpentine in this colour. Is it serpentine? Maybe not. I must test it; its properties may be different from the usual. If they are, you never know what it might lead to! I'm taking some samples."

"Arcanist," said Harding, stifling her anger, "if you want to go exploring, please take a scout with you. You know that's a rule."

"Oh, I'm not exploring," said Dagna vaguely. "I'm just a few feet away from camp."

"You are twenty minutes away," said Harding between her teeth, "and no one knew where you had gone. The Inquisitor would have my skin if I lost you."

"I don't get lost," said Dagna, chipping at the rock with a small hammer. Harding had never seen anyone with so many hammers; there was this smallish one, pointed at one end and blunt at the other, one like it that was even smaller tucked into a belt loop on one side next to a set of three chisels, a medium sized flat-headed hammer hung from her belt on the other side, and an enormous one like a maul hanging against her back. It was a wonder she could stand. And every one of them, judging by what she had seen, with a very specific and different use. "It's funny, you'd think I would, having grown up underground, most dwarves who come up do, but you know, I never got lost underground and I don't get lost above ground. It's all a matter of paying attention."

 _As if you ever pay attention to anything or anyone_ , thought Harding sullenly.

"It's harder when there's no sun," the Arcanist was saying, "but I've made a device that tracks direction, so I can always retrace my steps. I never get lost now! It's something like a compass, well, it includes a compass, but it keeps track of where the person with it is, in a different way. So the sun doesn't matter. The moons might, though. Not for direction, for tides. Tides affect where you can go, after all. I must think about how to fit them into it."

 _What?_ "Such a device could be very useful to the scouts," said Harding, stifling incipient hysteria and wondering if she'd understood the Arcanist correctly.

"Oh, would it? Remind me in Skyhold and I'll see what I can do about making some more. Maybe I can link them in some way too. Make a master that keeps track of others." She stopped chipping at the rock, looking thoughtful.

It was a good thing that it was only two spiders that came out of the crevice, attracted by the noise of chipping. Harding thought that it was probably at least one too many, given that backup had not yet arrived and she could only fight one at a time, and there was a great deal of commotion behind her. But when the spider attacking her fell and she whipped around to try to deal with the other one before it killed the Arcanist—there had been an alarming silence from behind her for the last half minute—Dagna was standing calmly, wiping the end of the big hammer on the turf, an expression of distaste on her face, and the spider in front of her was noticably flatter than the one Harding had killed. The scout lowered her bow in disbelief.

"Ick," Dagna said. "I _hate_ it when they squelch." She looked at the hammer speculatively, gave it one last wipe, and shouldered it. The hammer had a faint blue glow, but she did not seem worried by that. "Well," she said cheerily, "I think I've got enough of a sample now. Shall we go back to camp?"

*        *        *

Of course she was prepared for spiders; she was from Orzammar, and there were spiders everywhere in the Deep Roads. Harding had not been thinking properly, or she would have realized that any dwarf living under stone would have met spiders.

Or would they? Did they venture out of their cities? She didn't know, she was a surface dwarf herself, and her understanding of how dwarves beneath the stone lived was tenuous. Some must, to mine and trade. Dagna had been smith caste, she'd heard, so likely she'd done a stint in the Deep Roads, to understand where the materials she worked with came from.

At any rate, she'd learned how to kill spiders somewhere along the line. Harding felt marginally relieved, though still annoyed. The Arcanist did not take her personal safety—or that of anyone—nearly seriously enough.

Dagna's hands were covered in a multitude of fine scars, the lines gleaming in the firelight as she waved them while she talked to the scouts. There were other scars, fewer but bigger, on her forearms. They were hard, calloused, strong hands, and the well-defined muscles of her arms shifted as she moved, light and shadow. Well, it was not surprising; she was a smith. Likely the scars were from smithing. Or maybe from experiments gone wrong.

Harding wondered if there were other scars in places that could not be seen, and then quickly shut that thought down.

Dagna talked a lot. She never stopped talking, though what she said didn't always make sense. It was exhausting. Harding still didn't really understand why they had been sent to the Storm Coast with her, other than that she was looking for something for her work. It was annoying. She was annoying. She was explaining something to Lorek now, and the man's eyes had the slightly glazed expression that so many did when the Arcanist got into specifics about her work.

At least she never became ill-tempered. No matter how dangerous or uncomfortable the situation they found themselves in while travelling, she always seemed cheerful and interested; nothing frightened or fazed her. _Which is more_ , Harding thought with a sigh, _than can be said of most_. And there were interesting things in what she said, under the confusing babble. That idea about a device that could track people's journeys... she would follow up on it with Dagna, back in Skyhold. She started thinking about how such a device might be put into use, and let her mind drift away from the conversation the others were having.

*        *        *

Sometime later she looked around, and saw no sign of the Arcanist. The other scouts seemed to have noticed nothing awry. Damn it, the woman had disappeared again, and it was night now, even if it was, for once, a clear night and not raining, how would they find her, she could be—

No, there was someone down the shore a little ways, sitting on a weatherbeaten log, the moonlight catching the glint of mail. By the shape of the silhouette, it was the Arcanist. Harding walked down the cobbles, her heartbeat settling to a more normal rate. She was going to yank the fool woman back to the campfire and tie her to a boulder.

"Hello!" said Dagna. "It's an amazing view, isn't it? I wanted to memorize it before we started back to Skyhold."

Harding looked at the moon, hanging low in the sky, and at the light shivering on the waves. The mountains across the curve of the bay were a slightly darker darkness, and the stars were a wonder. The sound of the surf was gentler than when it was storming. There were great slow combers rolling in, and they hissed as they slid back from the cobbles of the beach, a dreamy, repetitive sound. She realized that she had rarely had the opportunity to admire the view on the Storm Coast, and had never taken the time to do so when she did.

"It _is_ amazing," she said, suddenly feeling tongue-tied and wondering if it would be inappropriate to sit on the log with the Arcanist and stare at it. The woman probably wanted to be alone.

"I'd never seen the ocean before, this trip" said Dagna. "I didn't expect it to move. Not like this."

"Never?" said Harding, surprised.

"I'm a dwarf from under stone, remember?" said Dagna. "We're used to lava, not water. It's very different. After I left I lived for a while by a big lake, but there were never waves like this. The first time I saw this it scared me out of my wits."

It had? She had not showed it; she had wanted to stop and talk about what the huge waves must do to the geology of the coastline. Harding couldn't remember when she had first seen the sea. It had been a wonder to her, she did remember that. How much more astonishing must it be to someone from under stone, who was not used even to seeing the sky? And what must it have been like for a dwarf from under stone to see the sky for the first time? That must have been truly terrifying.

"Thanks for coming after me today," said Dagna. "I expect I could have dealt with the spiders, but it was better with two of us. I appreciate your concern."

She said it a little awkwardly, as if it was something she'd practiced.

"It's all right," said Harding, feeling uncomfortable. "It's my job." Well, and wasn't _that_ a rude thing to say. She cursed her clumsy tongue and sat down on the log.

Dagna looked taken aback. "Well, I appreciate you doing your job, then." There was a moment of silence while Harding tried to figure out how to apologize and explain what she'd meant and if she should even try. Then Dagna said, "I know it's difficult for you all, following me around like this; it's not like what scouts normally do. I expect that's much more interesting. I asked the Inquisitor to let me go alone, but she wouldn't allow it."

"Of course not," said Harding, scandalized. "It's _dangerous_ out here. There aren't just spiders; there are Venatori and giants and we've even seen a dragon. No one should be out here alone."

"Well," said Dagna, and then hesitated.

"Look, Arcanist," said Harding, "I don't mind. None of us mind. This is what we do, and we're glad to do it." Did that sound like an apology? She had an uncomfortable feeling that she was digging herself into a deeper hole.

"Dagna," said Dagna.

"I beg your pardon?" said Harding, baffled.

"Call me Dagna. I called myself the Arcanist so people would take me seriously. Dwarves aren't supposed to know about magic, and I do, but people often don't believe it. The Inquisition did, and does. So I don't need to call myself the Arcanist so much here. My name is Dagna."

"Dagna," said Harding, and then could think of nothing else to say.

It must have been the right thing to say; Dagna was looking cheerful again. "It makes it hard," she was saying. "People don't think a dwarf can understand things like this, and some things I don't, because I can't do it, like dreams, but there's so much I _do_ understand! There's so much I can do with what I know!" She was waving her hands now, her teeth glinting in the moonlight, her enthusiasm palpable and infectious. "Most dwarves don't really even understand the things they can do with runes and enchantments, but I've studied it, and I can see how it works. I can explain it! Well, not always so people can understand. But it makes sense if you know how to see it. But a lot of people don't believe I can understand magic, because I can't do it, and they don't like it when I talk about it. They don't like me because I know more about it than they do, and I'm not supposed to. My own family hated me talking about magic, and tried to stop me from studying it, and I don't think they've ever really forgiven me for running away to the Circle. And I know I'm kind of obsessive about it, and people don't like that either. So, you know, I'm used to people disliking me. It's okay."

"I don't dislike you," said Harding, abruptly realizing that it was true. "I _worry_ about you."

"Really?" Dagna said, staring at her, and Harding suddenly felt that she had been _seen_.

"Yes," said Harding. "You wander off and get distracted. I worry that you could get lost—I know, you never get lost, but you never explained any of that before—and I worry that something could come after you when you're not paying attention and take you by surprise. Spiders. A giant."

"I actually pay more attention than it looks like I do," said Dagna. "I did a lot of travelling alone before I came here. I had to travel to the Circle Tower at Lake Calenhad on my own when I first left Orzammar. I saw so many amazing things! I learned a lot on that trip about paying attention." She gazed out over the sea.

Maybe not all the scars were from smithing, or experiments gone wrong.

"You ran away to the Circle Tower?" said Harding.

Dagna might have been blushing. It was hard to tell in the moonlight. "Yes. I wanted to study. It took a while, even with a recommendation from the Hero of Fereldan, but I convinced them to take me in. And I did study. I learned so much!"

" _That's_ amazing," said Harding. And it was amazing, that a dwarf could convince mages to allow her to study magic.

"I'm stubborn," said Dagna cheerfully. "They didn't expect me to keep trying. But I knew what I wanted to do. I just wanted to learn! I wore them down." Harding suppressed a smile; she had no doubt at all that that was exactly what had happened. "But what about you? How did you come to be an Inquisition scout?"

"The Inquisition sent people to the Hinterlands," said Harding, "but they didn't know much about the land. I knew it because I was a sheep herder, I spent a lot of time in the hills. So I offered to guide them, and then they offered me a job, and then, well, that was it."

"You must have really impressed them," Dagna said.

Harding shrugged. "They're recruiting everyone. There's a war on."

"But you're a Lieutenant now. And I've seen you work. You plan, you tell other people what to do. You're really good at what you do! It's like—I explore in old records, but you explore right now. You're learning too, you're learning the real world." She beamed at Harding, looking delighted by the comparison.

"I'm nothing special," said Harding, embarrassed.

"No," said Dagna. "You _are_."

Harding looked up, startled. The Arcanist was not smiling, and her brown eyes were steady and held something Harding could not quite identify.

She meant it. Andraste's tits, she meant it.

"The ocean frightened me at first," said Dagna, confusingly. "But I'm stubborn, like I said. I made myself sit and watch the waves. It's just different than what I'm used to, like the sky. That doesn't matter. I _want_ to see different things, learn different things. There's so much world out here. I can't think of anything better than learning it, even if parts of it are scary. You know what I mean?" She grinned and reached out a hand and took Harding's.

 _Yes_ , thought Harding, and squeezed Dagna's hand, something leaping in her, because it all made sense. _I do_.


	22. Rules are made to be broken.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana, teasing Cassandra in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to a prompt from sqbr. Thank you!

"What is _that_?" says Cassandra, standing stiff and forbidding and utterly immobile.

"It is a flower," says Leliana patiently, holding it out. She has made a small wager with herself as to how long it will be before Cassandra accepts it, and is counting off the time in the back of her mind. "A rose, to be specific. I believe it is the variety known as _Maidens' Tears_ , but I am not absolutely certain."

"But," says Cassandra uncertainly.

"It is for you," says Leliana, her arm unwavering. She has the strength of an archer, to hold a single bloom out does not trouble her at all.

The rose is still tightly furled, deep orange, with tips edging into red, and it is exquisite. It looks like a flame.

"Where did you get it?" Cassandra is frowning ferociously.

"From the Divine's garden, of course," says Leliana, perfectly relaxed.

The Right Hand blanches. "You can't—you mean you picked one of Most Holy's roses? No one is allowed to pick them except the Divine herself! Even the gardeners must ask for dispensation to cull the ones that are dying, and are required to account for each one!"

"Ah," says Leliana complacently, "but rules are made to be broken."

"No!" cries Cassandra, and puts her hands behind her back. "Rules are—I cannot accept such a gift!"

"Pish," says Leliana. "On a scale of evil this barely registers." She has not lowered her hand. The rose quivers between them.

"What on earth _possessed_ you?"

Leliana smiles. "The colour reminded me of you, all fire and light."

Cassandra's eyes widen, and her mouth moves slightly. Leliana notices that the tips of her ears have turned pink, and regards it as a good sign.

"Still," says Leliana, "if you have such strong feelings about it, perhaps I should deliver it to the compost heap, where it will do some good, even if not that originally intended." She lets her arm droop, just a little.

"No!" says Cassandra, making an involuntary movement. There is a surprising amount of emotion in her exclamation. "I—this—I cannot—but—"

Leliana leans a little further forward and places the rose in Cassandra's hand. Cassandra stares at it as if she cannot imagine where it came from.

"It is very beautiful," she says finally.

"Yes," says Leliana. "And that is the other reason it reminded me of you." Cassandra had not taken quite so long to weaken as she might have; she finds herself ridiculously pleased.

Cassandra's ears are red, and likely so is the rest of her face, though she has not lifted her head, and now seems wordless and stubbornly intent on only the flower.

"I did," says Leliana then, with a sly smile, "ask Justinia for the bloom. And told her why. She picked it herself, and gave it to me."

"You—" Cassandra lifts her head, looking abruptly ready to explode. But then she looks again at the rose. "You could have _said_ so," she says a little more temperately, getting herself under control with an effort.

"I could," says Leliana agreeably. "But that would not have been nearly so much fun. And besides, for you I would have taken it even if she had not given me permission." She goes up on tiptoe and kisses Cassandra's cheek briefly, soft lips against soft skin, and then turns and walks away. She feels enormously pleased and light as seedfluff on the wind.

She does not turn back to see Cassandra's expression, wide-eyed and confused and full of an unmade movement and something, something beginning to grow, the orange red of a flame, of a rose.


End file.
